Twelve minutes until this train comes.
Tonight I thought about sticky hormones, journal entries dripping with jealous, lonely tears. I remembered shy, sullen, insecure. My first period: a grey Friday afternoon. While watching a Ludacris music video. I forgot, momentarily, what it was. I thought I was dying. It didn't hurt, but I was so sure that I was dying.
Thirteen. Thirteen was strange and sort of cleanly awful. I cut all my hair off and began shaving my legs. Got my eyebrows waxed. Maybe that was fourteen.
I should read my book. I should write my essay. I should grade these tests. Every moment begs for the completion of a different task, and the clamor is too confusing to lend me any focus. I keep meaning to listen to other music or podcasts but I end up listening to Hamilton instead. Worn paths, tread into permanence. I fall into them time and again.
Four. The woman next to me is asleep. I thought she was reading over my shoulder. The notion made me itch.
There are too many people on this platform. I am getting into this train if I have to fight my way in. I've been away from my child too long. It's late. My feet no longer want to be in shoes.
Two. Oh, one. I need to get up and stand near the yellow line now. The crowds are thick. I wish me luck.